you wash your hands with the
sacrifice of generations i never met.
you tell me that cleanliness makes me god,
but i feel no holiness.
there are moments, when i am covered
in filth, lowly as my own
people of the street.
here it is, that i feel empowered-
here it is, my one lone home where
i am my own.

and i am told that the evil
will crumble under some supreme
holier-than-i-will-ever-aspire-to-be
ego trip by nothing more
than a cloud on the wind.

i may be under attack,
but at least my mind is in check
and everything inside is intact-
as much as i could want it to be.

04/03/2003

Posted on 04/04/2003
Copyright © 2025 Andrew S Adams